Professor Slughorn hadn't noticed Hermione's embarrassment at all.
Watching her pull off a hat trick on her very first day of class—answering three questions in a row correctly, he couldn't help but ask.
"My dear, would you tell me your name?"
"I'm Hermione—Hermione Granger, sir."
"Granger... Granger..."
The moment Slughorn heard the name, he began turning it over in his mind.
Almost instantly, a name surfaced from the depths of his memory.
"Are you perhaps related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"
Clearly, the old professor's usual habit had struck again.
The instant he spotted talent, he couldn't help but assume there was a pedigree behind it.
Hermione had already learned exactly what kind of person Professor Slughorn was, courtesy of Sherlock and Harry, so the question didn't surprise her in the least. She answered honestly. "No, I shouldn't think so, sir—I'm Muggle-born."
A few students at the Slytherin table couldn't help sniggering at that.
The Ravenclaws, too, watched the scene with no small amount of interest.
But Slughorn showed not a trace of disappointment.
Quite the opposite—the moment he heard Hermione was a Muggle-born witch, his face broke into a dazzling smile.
He looked at Hermione, then at Sherlock and Harry sitting beside her, and understanding appeared on him at once.
"Ah, of course!
"Harry, you once told me you had two best friends, both Muggle-born, both the finest students in the entire year.
"One is naturally this great detective Holmes, and I daresay the other must be this lovely, clever young lady?"
"Yes, sir." Harry nodded.
"Splendid, simply splendid. Twenty points to Gryffindor, richly deserved, for Miss Granger."
Slughorn said warmly.
The Slytherins who'd been laughing only moments before went stiff.
Hermione, meanwhile, turned to Harry, delighted, and whispered.
"Did you really tell him Sherlock and I were the best in the whole year?"
"Oh, come off it—what's so remarkable about that?" said Ron. For some reason, he sounded rather put out. "You two are the best in the whole year.
"If he'd asked me, I'd have said the very same thing!
"Except I'd have said I had three best friends!"
Hermione laughed, but made a shushing gesture so they could hear what Slughorn was saying.
Ron looked more put out than ever.
Sherlock and Harry exchanged a glance and a smile.
That was simply Ron's nature.
Really, his feelings weren't hard to understand.
It was, after all, a film with three leads—and somehow, he never got a credit.
"Now, of course, Amortentia doesn't actually create love.
"Love is one of the most precious things in this world, and it simply cannot be manufactured or counterfeited.
"But this particular potion will induce a powerful infatuation, an obsession.
"It is, I daresay, the most dangerous and most powerful potion in this room.
"Once you've lived as long as I have, you won't underestimate just how much power a bewitched infatuation can hold..."
None of the young witches and wizards present took Slughorn's words particularly to heart.
This time, even the Ravenclaws, and Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff, joined the Slytherins in eyeing the old professor with scepticism, as though they thought he was being rather alarmist.
Harry, however, couldn't help glancing at Sherlock again.
And Sherlock, as it happened, was looking back at him at that very moment.
In that instant, the same name had occurred to both of them. Merope Gaunt—Tom Riddle's mother.
Years ago, while her father Marvolo Gaunt and her brother Morfin Gaunt were both in Azkaban, she had used Amortentia to enchant the handsome young Tom Riddle Sr. of the time, and run away with him.
Under the potion's influence, the handsome Tom Riddle had adored her utterly, his every thought was filled with nothing but her.
After a short time, the two of them had a child.
She believed a life like that could last forever. But she was still too young then to know that every gift fate bestows has its price marked in secret.
And so, naively, she believed that with time and long companionship, genuine feeling might grow between them—especially now that they had a child. And so, she stopped giving him the potion.
The result was exactly as Slughorn had described. a bewitched infatuation carries tremendous force, and the rebound once the potion stops is every bit as terrible.
The instant the Amortentia was gone, Tom Riddle Sr. didn't say a word—he simply turned and ran.
The child Merope had pinned all her hopes on, the fruit of that love, made not the slightest difference.
Merope was, naturally, devastated.
In the end she had no choice but to sell the Slytherin locket to survive, and once Tom Riddle was born, she died in a Muggle orphanage.
One might say Merope's life was a concentrated portrait of how pure-blood fanaticism destroys a family—from the forbidden choice to fall for a Muggle, all the way to the self-abandonment of a woman who'd lost the will to live.
Her tragic choices went on to shape the entire course of Voldemort's upbringing.
Just as Slughorn had said—love won through Amortentia is false.
Like a tulip bubble. it looks like splendour, but the moment it's pricked, it's worth nothing at all.
"Now, then—"
Once he'd finished reflecting, Slughorn went on.
"We ought to begin the lesson."
"Wait, sir!"
Ernie Macmillan pointed urgently at a small black cauldron on Slughorn's desk.
"Sir, you still haven't told us what's in that one!"
The potion in the cauldron Macmillan had pointed to was bubbling merrily away.
Unlike the other three cauldrons, its colour was like liquid, molten gold.
Not only that, but great fat droplets leapt and danced across the surface of the liquid like darting goldfish—yet not a single drop ever splashed out.
"Ah!"
At Macmillan's prompting, Slughorn smacked his broad forehead and made that same exclamation again.
"Right you are—if you hadn't asked, I really would have forgotten!"
Like hell you would, you sly old devil!
It was plain as day—any student with half a brain in this room could see the professor hadn't forgotten that potion at all.
He'd simply been waiting for someone to ask.
The reason was obvious too. to manufacture exactly this kind of dramatic effect.
Because this was the most special of all the potions he was introducing today.
"Ladies and gentlemen, that particular concoction is one of the most peculiar little potions there is. It's called Felix Felicis."
He turned, smiling broadly, to face Hermione.
At this, Hermione had already let out a gasp the moment she heard the name.
"I imagine you know exactly what Felix Felicis does, don't you, Miss Granger?"
"It's Liquid Luck!" Hermione said, brimming with excitement. "It brings you good fortune!"
At that, the whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter, all at once.
Even the little snakes who'd been whispering among themselves fell silent, riveted on Professor Slughorn.
"Perfectly correct—another ten points to Gryffindor.
"Yes, this is a most peculiar little potion indeed—Felix Felicis."
Slughorn said, plainly delighted with the rapt attention he now got from the whole room.
"Not only are its ingredients exceptionally rare, but brewing it is extraordinarily complex as well.
"Get it wrong, and the consequences don't bear thinking about!
"But brewed correctly—as this one has been—you'll find that whatever you attempt will succeed... at least until the effects wear off."
"Then why doesn't everyone just drink it all day long, sir?" asked a Ravenclaw student who preferred not to give their name, eagerly.
"For one thing, it's extremely precious, naturally.
"As I just said, not only are the ingredients rare, but brewing it is enormously complex.
"I don't say this to inflate my own worth, children—but truly, there are only a handful of people in all of Britain capable of brewing it.
"As it happens, this very school has two of them."
Sherlock and his companions knew exactly who the other one was.
Severus Snape.
That Christmas in their first year, Harry had once traded a photograph of his mother and Snape for a tiny vial of Felix Felicis.
Had Slughorn not brought it up today, he would very nearly have forgotten the whole affair.
"The second reason is that taken in excess, it causes dizziness, recklessness, and a dangerous overconfidence."
Slughorn said, his expression turning grave.
"This is no exaggeration at all—too much of a good thing, as you know, can still do harm...
"In too large a dose, it becomes quite toxic.
"But if taken sparingly, cautiously, on occasion..."
"Have you taken it yourself, sir?" asked another Ravenclaw, curious.
"Twice, in my whole life."
Slughorn said, wistfully.
"Once at twenty-four, and once at fifty-seven.
"Two spoonfuls with breakfast—both of those days turned out perfectly."
He gazed off into the distance, his expression faraway, as though lost in some long-ago memory.
But Sherlock, Harry, and Hermione—the three of them who had actually taken Felix Felicis themselves knew perfectly well that Slughorn was telling the truth. It was no dream.
What truly caught the whole class off guard, though, was what Slughorn said next.
"As for this particular potion—I intend to make it the prize for today's lesson."
The classroom fell silent in an instant.
Every gurgle and bubble from the potions around the room seemed to grow ten times louder.
"This is a small vial of Felix Felicis."
Slughorn said, drawing a small, cork-stoppered glass vial from his pocket and holding it up for the whole class to see.
"It grants twelve hours of good luck—from dawn until dusk, whatever you attempt will go your way.
"I must warn you, however, that Felix Felicis is banned in any organized competition...
"Sporting events, examinations, elections, that sort of thing.
"So, whoever wins it may only use it on an ordinary day...
"And then simply wait and see how extraordinary that ordinary day turns out to be!"
"So, the question is..."
Slughorn said, suddenly growing animated.
"How exactly does one go about winning this marvellous prize of mine?"
The whole class fell dead silent. Even Sherlock watched with genuine interest—though he'd already worked out precisely what the old professor intended to do next.
"If you'd all turn your copies of Advanced Potion-Making to page ten.
"Let's see what time we have—very good, just over an hour left.
"You'll spend that time brewing a Draught of Living Death.
"I know it's more complicated than anything you've attempted before, and I don't expect anyone to produce a flawless potion.
"But don't worry—whoever brews the best one will win this little vial of Felix Felicis.
"So then—begin!"
The moment Slughorn's words fell, the classroom erupted with a harsh scraping sound—everyone dragging their cauldrons toward themselves. Right on its heels came the clink and clatter of weights being set on scales.
But not a single person spoke. The room's collective concentration was so intense it felt almost tangible.
Clearly, the lure of Felix Felicis was simply too great.
The students who'd made it into the N.E.W.T.-level Potions class all knew their business, and understood full well exactly what that little vial represented. It might be small, but as Professor Slughorn had just said, put to the right use, the thing was well and truly priceless.
Sherlock, Harry, and Hermione—the three who'd actually used it before—understood this better than anyone.
"Sherlock, Hermione—it's up to you two!"
Ron declared without hesitation, pinning all his hopes on the two of them.
At the moment, he wasn't nearly so concerned as before about whether he counted among Sherlock and Harry's best friends.
As far as he was concerned, the two of them were without question the ones most likely to win Felix Felicis in the whole class.
And given how close they all were, if he ever needed it, surely, they wouldn't refuse to share?
Sherlock gave a slight nod, though his movements remained as easy-going as ever. After sweeping his gaze once around the room, he slowly opened his potions textbook.
As for Hermione, she'd already set to work some time ago.
Just then, he noticed Harry squinting, an irritated expression on his face.
Sherlock followed his gaze and understood at once.
The copy of Advanced Potion-Making Slughorn had handed Harry was battered and worn—its previous owner clearly hadn't had the best habits.
The margins were scrawled over everywhere, until every blank space on every page was every bit as black with ink as the pages describing the potions themselves.
So, Harry had to work hard just to make out the ingredients through all the mess.
While Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to search for what he needed—something suddenly struck Sherlock.
He noticed that whoever had annotated this copy had also added a great many notes to this particular section, and had even crossed out several of the listed ingredients.
He picked up the book without a word and looked it over carefully once more.
A moment later, an expression crossed his face—both surprise and delight.
He flipped quickly back through the whole of the old potions textbook once more, start to finish.
By the time Harry hurried back clutching a sprig of valerian root, Sherlock had already set the book back down in front of him, the corner of his mouth curling faintly up.
"Interesting."
However one wanted to put it, even a detective as brilliant as Sherlock had never expected that a simple Potions lesson could turn up such an unexpected find.
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